"For overhead there is always the strange radiance of the mountains, there is the mystery of the icy river rushing through its pink shoals into the darkness of the pine-woods, there is always the faint twang of ice on the air, and the rush of hoarse-sounding water." - D.H.Lawrence, Twilight in Italy
The declining sunlight casts long shadows on the meadows, trees and rocks magically elongated over the sensual curves of the valley.
The little cross is hidden from view, not far from our path, but few walkers know it is there.
It’s almost our secret, a tiny haven nestled at the foot of the magic mountain, a special place: we belong there.
We can hear the small stream, running through the pine trees, as you turn your beloved face towards me, the green eyes I worship, deep into my lost soul, as images of our fall flash through my mind, and yours.
There, high above the valley, is the vertical cliff where you last kissed me, before our death: we haunt this place, and only the spirits will ever know. http://ofglassandpaper.com/2012/10/12/fivesentencefiction-detour/
